Firefly
by AsgardianPrincess
Summary: Abrielle has been on the run for nearly a year from her old employers: SHIELD. When her ex-partner, the one and only Clint Barton, tracks her down and forces her to return to SHIELD, Abri knows she has little chance of escaping. Can Steve Rogers help her defeat the demons that haunt her dreams at night?


Dreaming. It's not a skill. It's a game. It's a game based on luck. Sometimes you'll have a nice dream that'll make you happy, but some nights you'll emerge gasping from a choking nightmare that will haunt you for the rest of your life. But what if that nightmare has already happened in real life? What if it's something you're being forced to relive every single time you close your eyes? And what if that nightmare is framed with guilt because whatever you're dreaming of is your _entire_ fault?

Then it's something you'll never escape.

"_Hi, you've reached the landline number of June Thompson. I'm not available at the moment; please leave a message at the beep."_

_Beep. "_Junie, it's Claire. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for lunch today since you missed all the fun at the beach yesterday. Oh, and Alex was asking about you by the way. He was wondering if you were alright. Uh… call me back. Later."

_Beep. _"Hey, June. It's Alex. I was wondering… I mean I was just going to ask if you wanted to maybe go out to dinner or something with me? Shoot me a call. Bye."

_Beep. _"'Sup, June? Wanna go shopping later? Call me back girlie. See ya. Oh, it's Em, by the way."

_Beep._

The phone signified I had no other messages, and I removed my finger from the button in relief. Nothing. It was shocking that they hadn't found me yet. I knew it would only be a matter of time. After I left, at first I never stayed anywhere for too long. But I had been in South Carolina for about a year now, and I hadn't caught anything-not even a whiff of _them-_ that was a sign for me to move on.

I deleted Alex's message instantly so I wouldn't have to debate calling him back. I felt guilty for keeping him on edge for so long-I'd been dodging his dates for nearly six months now- because it wasn't like I wasn't interested, I was, but I couldn't drag him into my crazy hell-cave of a life. He'd only get hurt.

The phone was in my hand and I was just about to return Claire's call when it began buzzing and ringing against my palm. I dropped it in shock and watched as it clattered to the floor, still ringing shrilly. After the sixth ring, the machine picked it up.

"_Hi, you've reached the landline number of June Thompson. I'm not available at the moment, please leave a message at the beep."_

_Beep. _"June Thompson. Very original."

I felt my heart stop at the voice, and I looked over at the machine in terror. _No, _I silently begged, _it can't be. They can't have found me_. _I can't go back. I _can't.

"Great job on hiding your tracks, by the way. I'm impressed. But of course, I am the one who trained you, so I recognized every single little mistake." There was a pause as he allowed himself a small laugh.

"Anyways, it's time for you to come back. We're coming for you as I speak, so be ready. You're not going to get away this time."

Clint Barton had only just finished his message when I moved. My feet skidded on the floor as I darted down the hall, wrenching open my bedroom door and flinging myself on the floor to grab the emergency bag that was under my bed. I felt it loop around my hand and I pushed myself to my feet, sprinting back through the cottage to the door.

Even before I got there I knew it was too late. The familiar roar of a quinjet made the flowered vase on the kitchen counter shake, and I flung myself around a corner as bright flashlights peered into the windows.

I felt tears come into my eyes as I heard them begin to kick down the door. I wasn't ready. I'd spent so much time rebuilding, creating this new life. Building myself back up from where I'd fallen. I'd found friends, _normal_ friends, a community…

_I'm not going back. Never. _I stared at the hall closet, an idea forming in my mind.

There was a giant smacking sound as the door was kicked down, and I heard the intruders creeping down the hall and turning the corner I was behind.

But I wasn't there anymore. I crouched on the top shelf of the hall closet, curled up behind a large, moving box full of cleaning supplies. Footsteps tapped slowly on the wood flooring outside as they began to make their way towards the closet slowly, so slowly it made me wonder if they'd ever even get there. Then the door was wrenched open, and I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to curl up even smaller as the flashlights crept through the closet, determined to find a trace of me.

_Ha. Good luck finding me here, assholes._

The closet door shut again, and suddenly, my breath burst out, making a small noise. My eyes widened, and I fought the urge to swear.

_Shit._

The door swung open again, and the flashlight was back. I looked around desperately, but the only thing nearby was the giant box I was hiding behind.

Getting a sudden idea, I placed a hand on the edge of the box, testing its weight. The flashlight beam rose higher, signifying the person was standing up taller. I had maybe seconds before it would find me. I pressed harder against the box and pushed, feeling it slide slowly towards the edge of the shelf. Closer… closer….I gave one last push, and then the box slid off the shelf and I heard a grunt as the agent buckled under its weight.

I jumped off the shelf, darting past the unconscious agent and back into the suspiciously empty hall. I could hear _them _in my bedroom, searching for me. I crept down the hall, my footsteps seeming quiet compared to my heartbeat.

The garage door was thirty steps away. If I could get through that, I could make it into the yard and over the fence, and then down the street to Em's house, where I could borrow her car and maybe hide out for a few days.

I took a deep breath and then stepped forward.

One step, two steps, three steps. Twenty-seven to go.

Four, five, six, seven, eight. Twenty-two.

Nine and ten. A third of the way there. A bead of sweat fell down my face as I snuck forward, time slowing as I desperately made my way to my escape.

I was nearly there-maybe five steps away- when a voice cut through my thoughts.

"There you are." I froze, and then turned to the man behind me. He knocked an arrow in three seconds, so fast you could barely see it unless you'd, like me, seen it countless times before.

But this was the first time I'd ever seen the arrow pointed at my own throat.

The man stepped forward slowly, forcing me to back away from the arrow. The boots on his feet made no noise on the floor, an assassin's trick. His blue eyes stared into mine, and I felt my heartbeat quicken in fear.

"I'm not going back."

"I thought you'd say that."

"You know why."

"Yea. I do."

I reached back into my pocket-disguising the movement of my shoulder by looking up at the ceiling as though looking for an escape. Clint's gaze followed mine, and I was surprised he hadn't noticed me pulling out my knife. I'd never, in all my days, been able to pull one over him like that.

"Abri…" Clint said with a small sigh as he looked back at me, "Give it up."

"No. I'm not going back. I'm going to stay here, and I'm going to live a long, stress-free life, and I'm going to enjoy it. I'm not going back to that… that…_shit pile _again." My grip tightened on the knife, as I saw the string of his bow being pulled back.

"You're being unreasonable."

I scoffed. "_I'm _being unreasonable Clint? You're the one who brought, like, forty-five agents to take care of a twenty-four year old, unemployed, lonely girl!"

Clint rolled his eyes. "You really gonna pull that one again?"

"The only thing that's being pulled here is the string of your bow. Yeah, I noticed. You see I, unlike you, remember everything about my former partner. Because I, unlike you, am capable of actually _feeling something."_

"And what is it that I'm supposed to feel Abri? Look, I'm sorry that you had a very traumatic experience in the field, but this… this _girl _living alone and acting like she's never even killed anyone, this isn't you! You need to remember who you _are _Abrielle."

The knife hit the wall a centimeter away from his head. He didn't move.

"This _is_ who I am, Clint! People change! Go ahead and look me in the eyes and _tell me _you're the same kid who used to work for Carson Carnival with Trickshot. Go ahead."

Clint looked away, and I saw something gin his eyes as his gaze passed me by. Sorrow. Pity. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "You're right. I'm not the same.

"Because that kid would never have done this."

I'd already moved by the time his arrow fired. My quick reflexes were as honed as ever. Before Clint could move, I dug my hand into my bag and found the familiar weapon I used to call my best friend.

As Clint knocked another arrow, frustration showing in his eyes, I flicked the lighter, the chemical flame sparkling green in the air. The next arrow fell to the ground in ashes. I stared at the lighter for a moment, absorbing the feeling. I'd forgotten what it felt like to use it.

Clint glared at me, furious. "I thought we agreed that you didn't burn my arrows!" I frowned when I realized that there was a joking gleam in his eyes.

"That was when we were _partners, _Clint. But clearly, we're not now," I spat back at him.

"So you wouldn't be mad," he said conversationally as he fired another arrow at me, this one falling to the ground in smoke instead of ashes_. Huh. I thought he hated metal arrows. Times change I guess. _"If I told you that I got a new partner?"

I almost dropped the lighter in shock, but quickly composed myself. "Who?" _Did he really forget about_ _me that fast?_

"Me," a woman's voice said from behind me, before the tazer beam hit me in the back.

My limbs jerked uncontrollably, and the lighter dropped to the floor, my body following it, before everything faded to black.


End file.
